


With the Dreams of the World (In the Palm of Your Hand)

by RDcantRead



Series: Stockings 2019 [4]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Emetophobia, Loneliness, Multi, Panic Attacks, Sad Roger Taylor (Queen), Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:07:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21989266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RDcantRead/pseuds/RDcantRead
Summary: It’s three days ‘til Christmas and Roger’s all alone.He’s lying awake in a room that honestly feels like it’s minus thirty but is probably only minus two, at most.
Relationships: John Deacon/Brian May/Freddie Mercury/Roger Taylor
Series: Stockings 2019 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1580743
Comments: 1
Kudos: 27
Collections: DL Stockings 2019





	With the Dreams of the World (In the Palm of Your Hand)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [deHavilland](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deHavilland/gifts).



> Title from "A Winter's Tale" by Queen

The usual hype surrounding the Christmas holidays was unusually absent that December in the shared Queen flat. The heating was, once again, not working properly; the rent had gone up, and John was sick. They could try to get the money to pay for the rent, and usually, John would fix the heating, but he was currently indisposed. 

The nasty chest infection that he had resulted in a fever upwards of thirty-eight degrees and a week-long round of constant vomiting, lack of sleep for everyone in the flat, and a considerable effort on Roger’s part to quarantine John. (In fact, the only one quarantined in the flat was Roger, as he refused to come within a radius of  _ at least  _ ten feet of John.)

The Christmas decorations hadn’t been dug out of their parents’ attics yet, and they were nowhere near ready to decorate the sparse flat, let alone celebrate Christmas. And so they were in a cold, dank room using John as a heater and cuddling together for warmth as Roger set up camp in the other, freezing cold, room far away from the social construct of “friendship” and “companionship.”

But it was lonely, spending the holiday season all alone, and, while he was perfectly healthy, it was probably worse than spending time with his bandmates and best friends, who might be infected with whatever John had, but at least they weren’t freezing their asses off all alone with no one around them. So maybe it wasn’t better to stay in the living room, the farthest away from the far bedroom, and it would have been better and more comfortable to spend his time getting infected along with his friends.

Who knew how long he would spend alone? If he was to isolate himself far away from any illnesses the flat’s occupants carried, then he would probably have to stay all by himself for at least a month. And it wasn’t really fair that he had to spend all this time alone and isolated when putting John in quarantine would have lasted maybe ten days and then nobody would be alone for longer than necessary. But no. His bandmates had to decide that John being cared for and reassured of his standing in the band was more important than Roger. 

He’s being a dick. He’s putting all the blame on John and his bandmates when it’s all his fault - a construction of his mind - he’s pinning the blame on everyone but him when it’s his own damn fault that he can’t stand being in the same room as someone who’s sick without having a panic attack. The injustice is terrible, but maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if he could tell his friends the real reason he’s alienating John beyond “I don’t want to get sick.” 

If he could actually open up to his friends then it would be better than having to spend Christmas alone and without adequate company. Well, he says adequate, he could go out and spend the night getting sloshed in a random bar with the company of all the drunks who are alone on Christmas just like him. It’s not fair anyway, he has friends, good friends, friends that would probably do anything for him, but just because he has this weird thing about illnesses then he can’t spend time with them. 

He wants to get over himself, but he said that last week, and it hasn’t happened yet, and he doubts he’s going to get better soon. It’s just the way he’s wired, unnecessarily tense when the subject comes up, stupidly panicky when it actually happens. He suspects it’s some sort of childhood trauma, a bad experience being sick resulting in lifelong anxiety surrounding anything to do with it.

It’s three days ‘til Christmas and Roger’s all alone. He’s lying awake in a room that honestly feels like it’s minus thirty but is probably only minus two, at most. And it’s so cold, but Roger doesn’t have anything warm enough to warm himself up, considering how suddenly John got sick and how he didn’t have anything prepared for spending over a week sleeping in the freezing cold.

He can hear footsteps approaching the living room, from the long steps he suspects it’s Brian, and he can feel the panic build in his chest, pressing down on his lungs and heart and making his heart race. 

“Roger?” He’s vaguely aware of Brian calling his name but it takes a bit of effort to look up into Brian’s hazel eyes, and he wishes he was good at reading people just from the look in their eyes, but he isn’t and he can’t see anything in Brian’s unreadable gaze. 

“Roger, can you look at me?” Oh, sorry Brian, he wasn’t aware that he needed to do more than  _ look  _ at Brian. Then he becomes aware that he’s closed his eyes against the raging headache. He struggles to open his eyes and the tears clouding his vision make his unreality more hazy than it already is. 

He calms himself down. Eventually. Brian sits by him throughout the whole attack, and the panic might have been mostly tamped down, but he can still feel the vague stirrings of adrenaline poisoning his bloodstream. He doubts it’s going to go away while Brian is still near him, but he manages to assuage the fear that maybe Roger deserves the isolation he’s forced upon himself. 

“I’m… fine. I’m fine Bri,” he repeats himself. It’s annoying, and he wishes he stopped being so predictable, and he really should start screening what he says. God, he’s an idiot, only people who don’t mean it say that they’re fine, but Roger really  _ does  _ mean it, he’s just an idiot.

“Okay,” he could be surprised at Brian’s easy acceptance of his assessment of his mental state, but he isn’t, Brian was always too compassionate and accepting, “Just… if you need anything, I’m here for you,” the whispered reassurance helps. Well, it would help more if Brian had said, “We’ll put John in quarantine,” but you can’t always get what you want.

But at least he knows that he won’t have to spend Christmas alone. He’s definitely got Brian, and maybe Freddie, but knowing Brian, he’s got him to rely on too.


End file.
